


my words will be your light

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Hot Chocolate, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), Post-War, Roommates, Snow, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: Newt wakes Hermann up in the middle of the night to go out into the first snow of the season.





	my words will be your light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommunionNimrod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/gifts).



> Title of the fic comes from "Winter Song" by Sarah Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson.
> 
> Happy Holidays, Kerry. From, Your Secret Santa :)

"Dude," Newt says, like he starts every conversation he's ever had, "did you look outside your window?"

Generally, Hermann does not take kindly to being woken up at twelve thirty in the morning by anyone, and despite their newfound connection to one another ever since the drift, Hermann doesn't make an exception for his former lab partner. No matter if they're lodged together, working at the same university in Berlin, sharing nearly every waking moment together, because the thought of being apart after the drift is so painful. Any time Hermann even thinks about whether this a healthy level of codependency, if he imagines telling Newt he'll be finding new accommodations by himself, it sets a tight stone in his chest, forcing him to take steadily sharper breaths and remind himself that Newt had said words like _partners_ and _staying together_ and _need you._ Words that Hermann still has trouble believing.

There was also a lot of use of the words _us_ and _we,_ and Hermann still doesn't know what context Newt meant by them _._ For the last six months, he's been too scared to ask. It’s a bone-deep, sick fear that curdes like old milk, the gaping maw of uncertainty that accompanies the thought that Newt doesn't mean _us_ and _we_ in the way that Hermann hopes.

The drift isn't a perfect one to one connection. Like any wireless link, the signal gets muddled, data transferred over the connection is an imperfect recreation of the original. So too was the drift, flashes and sensations of someone else's thoughts, feelings, but a sense of wholeness, of completion, of seeing and being seen. Of knowing Newt was here, and knowing that Newt knew that Hermann wanted to be here, and knowing that Newt felt something like afraid, but also a joy that Hermann wanted to be here.

This circle of knowing and feeling accompanied a fantastical swirl through memories of lonely childhoods, failures and abandonment ( _she didn't want me why didn't she want me)_ and hope in the form of an email almost lost among the dozens of others ( _Hello Dr. Geiszler, I'm a physisict at the University of Berlin and I've read your latest proposal on the origins of the monstrous creature responsible for last months attack. I have a few questions about the theoretical underpinnings behind your suggestions_ ) and there was a screaming void of alien neural patterns behind every moment. An overwhelming wave threatening to drag a single man under to his doom, that almost did, if not for Hermann wrenching that awful Pons headset off the first time.

But humans have an unlikely capacity to survive, especially when working together. And so, they did. They faced the alien presence that threatened to absorb them and used each other as shields against the void.

After the drift and the war and the celebrations and the alcohol--  _so_ much alcohol -- they stumbled back to Hermann's bunk in a giddy drunken glamor, falling onto Hermann's bed and sharing the dregs of a bottle of good bourbon. Newt kept his knee pressed to Hermann's hip. That physical connection felt so good after the loss of that mental one, the emptiness of not having Newt there in his head. A space had been carved there, an imprint. In later years, Hermann will wonder what might've happened had they drifted apart, grown distant, and had nothing of each other to replace that emptiness with. Any dimension where that occurs is cursed. But thankfully, that isn't the ending they have in store.

No, in this dimension, there's a frantic, rhythmic knock on Hermann's bedroom door, and a frantic looking Newt once Hermann opens it. Though this sort of frantic isn’t fearful. More like the jittery excitement Hermann used to see him wear when they had a job that required these late hours and didn't interfere with Hermann's natural circadian rhythm.

"I was _asleep_ , Newton," Hermann yawns, leaning on the doorframe. "Like most other sane human beings, I choose to keep hours that follow the rise and setting of the sun. So, no. I haven't looked outside."

"Eh," Newt says, shrugging and waving him off. "You've gotten woken up for worse things in the middle of the night. Hell, I've woken you up for worse things. But man, you gotta look outside. It's snowing!"

Hermann sighs, nodding because he already knows this. Apparently, he's the only one of the pair who regularly checks a weather forecast. To be fair, snow in December in Berlin isn't highly common anymore, what with the continued encroachment of climate change. It's certainly cold, but it hasn't taken a dip into the negatives all month. So, if one wasn't aware of the meteorological outlook, one could be forgiven for presuming.

"What exactly would you like me to do about that?" Hermann asks. It comes out softer than it might've before the drift. Fonder. He can't be angry about a lot of things he used to get utterly steamed over. Newt's behavior always seemed attention-seeking, loud and brash and dismissive of the feelings of others. Hermann’s perspective changed when he got a look inside, saw the weird little child who latched onto anyone who seemed to give a damn, who tried too hard to impress because maybe if he impressed them, they'd want to get to know him. They'd accept him voluntarily, in a way that his dad and uncle were obligated to. They'd share and connect and be excited about things that were far beyond his dad and uncle's capacity to.

Newt had been loud and brash and bold and demanding of Hermann in a way no one else had before. Now he regrets not trying a little harder to see why.

"Uh, come outside with me?" Newt asks. He lifts his arm, clutching both of their winter coats in his hand. "First snowfall of the season, and it's coming down like crazy. I think it started a couple hours ago; there's gotta be a good coverage by now."

"Newton, it's past midnight, and it's freezing," Hermann says, folding his arms. "You know I despise the cold. I've already put on my night clothes, and I'm tired. The snow will be there in the morning."

"It's gonna stop snowing before six, though," Newt replies. "And it's supposed to heat up quick tomorrow. Gonna melt before we have a chance to enjoy it."

Hermann sighs again. "Can't you go out by yourself? Why am I needed for this?"

Newt shrugs, his gaze dropping as an unsure, half-smug grin quirks at his mouth. "I dunno, man. You can't think of a reason I'd want you there?"

"Not really, no," Hermann responds.

"Oh," Newt says. If Hermann was anyone else, he might miss the subtle wince, the slight downturn of Newt's lips. Disappointment. Oh, hell. That won't do at all.

"However," Hermann states, reaching out and prying his coat from Newt's fingers. "Obviously you won't be satisfied unless I join you. Five minutes. No more. Alright?"

Newt nods, his eyes lighting up. It steals Hermann's breath away every time, knowing what it means, knowing how happy it makes Newt when they're in agreement. Not fighting, but pleasantly symbiotic in their thoughts; Hermann willing to listen to what he has to say. Hermann hadn't known how badly Newt craved his approval until the drift. Frankly, it's bit intimidating -- slightly terrifying -- to have someone who holds him in such high regard. He'd thought, after their first meeting, that he'd ruined any chance with Newt, and even years later, working side by side, he'd thought Newt had a begrudging respect for him as a colleague and coworker, but not much more. Now he knows it's something deeper than that. Genuine affection. Maybe even... something he can't put a name to yet. Can't bring himself to validate, no matter what he hopes for.

Their apartment building is a well-kept, four story building, a far cry from the drab walls and cold steel of Hong Kong. They live on the second floor, which is only acceptable because of the lift. Newt has joked that he'll have to carry Hermann down the stairs in the event of a fire or emergency. Hermann tries not to think about that, mostly because the idea of Newt picking him up and carrying him bridal style down a set of stairs makes him get hot in the face.

No one else seems to be daft enough to be out and about this late at night. They take the lift down and step into the lobby. The glass doors of the building show a steady, gentle but heavy downfall of snow, already covering the front stoop and the inner courtyard of the complex in a layer of pure white. Newt makes a giddy sound and grabs Hermann's elbow, tugging him towards the door.

"Hold on, hold on," Hermann says, zipping up his coat as best he can with his companion keeping a hold of his arm. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then frowns. "I thought I had gloves in this coat. Damn, I need to go back up-"

He doesn't get to finish, because Newt has dug a pair of black mittens out of his own jacket and thrust them into Hermann's hands. "Stop with the excuses, Herms," Newt says, pushing the inner lobby door open. "Your hands aren't gonna freeze off in five minutes."

"I have poor circulation," Hermann complains. Not as if that's going to make Newt any less insistent on this. "Don't you need these? You'll be scooping up the bloody snow and your hands will be freezing by the time you're done."

"If you're so worried, you can warm them up for me after," Newt replies, pushing open the outer door.

Hermann flushes at the implication, if he can even call it an implication. He doesn't know at this point. He swears Newt has been hinting towards wanting a deeper form of closeness ever since the drift, but what if Hermann is wrong about what it entails? What if Newt is mortified that Hermann interpreted his feelings that way? What if he has second thoughts about living with Hermann? They drifted together so easily, and his logical mind says they couldn't drift apart just as easily, but he can't shake the fear. Thinking about being alone, an empty apartment, no one to share a home with... he doesn't know what Newt wants. But he's reticent to ruin what they have now. Even if he wants more.

The cold hits them in a quiet rush, no harsh winter wind to make their eyes water. The snow drops in heavy flakes against Hermann's cheeks, and without meaning to, he finds himself opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out, like he did when he was a child. Each flake is a cool, delicious lightness that quickly melts against his tongue. The air smells of precipitation, his breaths freezing visible in the chill temperature.

The inner courtyard of their complex is a stretch of two sidewalks running parallel, with another apartment building facing theirs, fenced off together from the outer world. There are a few trees and bushes, and a single bench, every inch of which is covered with several inches of snow, as is the rest of the ground. Newt, apparently uncaring that his black boots aren't made for winter weather, lets go of Hermann's arm and steps down off the porch. The snow crunches lightly under his feet, as he twists around, thrusting his arms out and grinning widely at Hermann.

"Dude, it's gorgeous!" Newt says, eyes twinkling. The water droplets that have melted into his hair sparkle in the moonlight. His cheeks are starting to rose red from the cold. His expression is pure, innocent joy, and it steals Hermann's breath away.

"Yes," he says softly. "Yes, quite lovely, when you get a good look at it."

He swears Newt blushes, but writes it off as the cold, because the other man doesn't comment on what Hermann's said. Instead, he turns and stares out beyond the courtyard fence.

"I bet the whole city's just like this," Newt says. "I've never seen Berlin covered in snow. I was too young to remember it when we left for Boston."

"It's like any other city, I suppose," Hermann responds. He gives in to Newt's carefree attitude and steps down onto the courtyard snow, moving to stand beside the other man. "Very nice to look at for a few hours, and then everything turns to slush and disgusting muddy ice piles. Sorry to say, if you go out in the morning, it won't be quite this... erm..."

" _Magical_ ," Newt breathes.

Hermann rolls his eyes, but he smiles a little. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way, perhaps. But it won't be the same."

"Mmmm," Newt says. His eyes are still fixed outward, but not on anything, probably lost in his thoughts. Hermann feels a twinge of sadness at the thought that he can't be lost in them with Newt.

Ever since the drift, he's often thought about what an untainted drift with Newt would feel like. Just the two of them, exploring each other's minds, no world to worry about saving, or interloping kaiju -- even if the kaiju was the whole _point_  of the thing -- to come between them. In their drift, they had mere moments in each other's heads. Experienced only disconnected thoughts flashing out of the subconscious, received ghostly imprints of each other's personalities (Hermann has found himself craving terrible American junk foods, and Newt's home office is miles neater than their lab ever was).

Once, Hermann would've given anything to stay as far away from Newt as possible. Now he's trying to figure out how to literally reconnect to the other man's brain.

Hermann looks upwards into the snowfall. The moon is full and glowing behind the puffy, grey clouds that envelop the skyline, snowflakes flurrying down from above. He can hear distant cars shuttling down the street, but the area around them is quite silent, the late hour seeing most of the city deep in slumber. Time seems as frozen as the ground below their feet, long shadows from the porch lights cast across the blinding white of the layered snow.

The sudden slap of wet cold against Hermann's cheek makes him shriek and nearly tumble backwards, catching himself at the last moment. He whips around to see Newt has lept away, bent over, one hand wet with the remnants of snow, the other already gathering another handful to throw. He's wearing a cheeky, playful grin. Hermann might not be connected to Newt's mind at this very moment, but he can certainly read it now. Of course, the man dragged him out here for a bloody snowball fight, of all the things. 

Hermann squints, tensing up. " _Don't_ ," he warns, already anticipating his command’s failure and assessing the courtyard's defensive capabilities. The closest point is the tree half a dozen meters away. The moment he sees Newt's hand lift the next handful of snow, Hermann lashes out with his cane, smacking Newt's fingers with a good stinging blow, not bad enough to injure but enough to make him drop the snow. He then swiftly throws himself sideways and towards the tree as Newt recovers from the shock of the hit and grabs two more handfuls of the flurry white powder below him.

The snow slaps against the tree trunk as Hermann dives behind it, a rush of adrenaline fueling his movement. "Newton, stop this at once!" Hermann shouts, even as he grins, his breath comes in giggling pants, his chest twisting with a giddiness that can't possibly be his own.

Hermann despises the cold. His circulation is poor enough that he tries to avoid feeling chilly whenever possible, and he's liable to spend winter wrapped up in every blanket he owns. He hated the Hong Kong Shatterdome for this very reason; he could never get warm there, always a damp chill in his bones. But now he's got a bit of Newt in his head, and Newt's love of the snow, of playing in it, catching it on his tongue, shaping it, feeling it melt on his cheeks. A nostalgia for his Bostonian childhood, of building snowmen and sledding in the park, dripping maple candy onto a fresh bowl of snow on the balcony of their apartment, drinking hot chocolate and watching the midwinter blizzards bury the city in a blanket of white. Playing cards with his dad and uncle, sitting around with lit candles under layers of blankets when the storm would knock the power out, listening to them tell stories of Germany and this very city. The memories, the nostalgic feelings, they all coalesce in a warmth that can keep out the coldest, darkest of winter nights.

And now Hermann has a bit of that warmth for himself. So, the cold is not as cold as it once was.

Another snowball whizzes by his head, landing in a snow pile a few meters away. Hermann slows his breathing, trying to hear the other man's crunching footsteps. It sounds like he's somewhere to the right, fingers digging into the blanketing snow, preparing to attack again.

"This is what you're doing?" Hermann asks, bending over and gathering two handfuls, clumping and squishing them together to make a large, well-shaped snowball. "Assaulting your roommate with winter weaponry? Have you no shame, _Doctor Geiszler_?" He finishes with a lazy, teasing drawl, knowing the use of his last name will annoy Newt.

"Shame is for those who've never had to grovel for funding to literally save the world," Newt replies. The voice helps Hermann discern his location. He was correct that Newt's voice is growing rightward, as if he's trying to circle the tree and catch Newt unawares. Hermann shifts his weight and takes a step to the left. Under the canopy of the tree, the snow isn't as deep, so his footsteps are quiet as he glances around the trunk.

A snowball hits him squarely in the face.

Hermann shrieks again and ducks back behind the tree to the sound of Newt's cackling laughter. "You're outsmarted, Herms!" Newt says, giggling. "Okay, okay, I'm good. You can come out. No more snowballs."

"Why should I believe you?" Hermann shouts, wiping his face against his sleeve. "How do I know you're not going to bash me in the face again if I step out? Swear it. Swear it on something important."

"I swear it on us, then. I- I mean, our friendship," Newt says. "That's how normal people say that."

Hermann swallows and steps out from behind the tree. Newt looks unnaturally uncertain, and his eyes get a fraction of a centimeter larger with each step Hermann takes towards him, until Hermann is directly in front of him. Hermann tilts his head, looking curiously at the other man.

"It's very important to you, then?" Hermann asks, voice as soft as the snow fluttering through the air. "Us?"

Newt nods. "Yeah. It's, like. It's the most important, man." He lets out a nervous laugh, holding up empty hands. "See? No snow."

"Mmmm," Hermann says. Newt is rosy-cheeked, his lips dry from the winter air. He smiles shyly up at Hermann, and Hermann has the urge to lean in, curl his fingers through the red plaid scarf around Newt's neck and warm Newt's mouth with his own. 

Instead, he lifts his free hand and plops the giant handful of snow he's been hiding behind his back on top of Newt's head.

It takes a moment for Newt to process the shock of the action, the cold now seeping into his hair. Then he lets out a squeak and stumbles back, shaking his head like a dog, expelling snow as Hermann laughs full-bellied, bent over and wiping tears from his eyes.

"You- you jerk!" Newt yelps, his expression not angry in the least. "We were having a moment! I swore on us and everything!"

" _You_  swore on us, Newton," Hermann says, grinning and straightening up. "I made no such promises."

"Oh, you sneaky _bastard_ ," Newt says, grinning right back. "Fine, that's how we're gonna play this?"

He lunges his arms down, grabbing more fistfuls of snow and throwing handfuls. Hermann yelps and tosses his cane down, leaning on his good leg to grab his own snow and start throwing it at Newt. Their snowballs being poorly packed, the snow mostly comes apart in the air and ends up as a dusting, but they keep throwing it at one another. They don’t even bother with cover at this point, just pelting each other with freshly fallen powder and laughing and yelping and shrieking like a couple of children, having discovered the fun of it all for the first time. Hermann lands a snowball squarely in Newt's face as payback for earlier, and at some point, he snatches his cane back up, whacking Newt's snowballs right back at him, like a snow-mad game of baseball.

Ten minutes later, and Hermann is catching his breath against the tree while Newt lies on his back in the snow inside a half-arsed snow angel flattened by his limbs. They're both wet and red-faced and out of breath and Hermann's had the best time of his life in ages. He catches Newt's eyes, the warmth of his smile, something only for Hermann in this moment. Again, he has an urge, this time to flop on top of Newt in the snow and make out like bloody teenagers. Again, he chooses not to indulge himself, instead holding a hand out to help hoist the other man out of the snow. Newt turns to look at the snow angel, and they see it's not quite as half-arsed as they both thought.

"Fuck, man, look at us," Newt says, wiping snow off the front of his jacket. "I don't think I've had a real snowball fight in a decade."

"I don't think I've had one at all," Hermann says. He presses his hand to his cheek, not sure which is colder, and which will warm which. "Takes a lot more bloody energy than I thought it would."

Newt snorts and looks him up and down. "You need to get warmed up before cranky, sleepy Hermann turns into Hermann with pneumonia. Come on."

"That isn't how one catches-"

"I know, dude, geez. I'm a fucking biologist." Newt slings his arm around Hermann's elbow, tugging. "It's just a saying. You wanna stay out here until you freeze?"

"Preferably not," Hermann grouses, leaning into Newt's warmth. When Newt doesn't pull away, Hermann doesn't either. They make their way back up the porch steps arm in arm. Hermann catches himself before he rests his head on Newt's shoulder. He can feel something in the air, a lingering change, a promise of something to come, but not yet. Not just yet...

They don't run into anyone on the way back to their apartment. Hermann wonders what they might look like to any passerbys: red-faced and trading fond smiles, pressed together in each other's space. They only break apart when they step through the front door and shed their jackets to dry out on the hooks on the back of the coat closet. Newt blows air into his palms, then rubs them together.

"You want something warm to drink?" Newt asks. "I've got a treat we can share. Gift from one of my new co-workers."

"Doctor Chachar? You said he's a nice fellow," Hermann responds. He pulls his zip-up sweater out of the closet, wanting something else to wear that isn't wet.

"Yeah. He says he wants to meet you, y'know," Newt says. He heads towards the kitchen and Hermann follows, fiddling with the zipper, which has always been a bit sticky. "Wants to know both halves of our dynamic duo."

"Oh?" Hermann says, eyes still on the zipper, until Newt's hands come into view and gently pry his fingers away.

"I'm buying you a new sweater. Maybe as a Hannukah present," Newt says. From his angle, it's easier for him to get the zipper properly lined up, and he pulls it up to right below Hermann's collarbone. Hermann swears his fingers linger there for a moment, brushing the barest hint of skin. "We're not in the middle of a war anymore, Herms. You can afford to splurge, take care of yourself. Maybe buy something that was made in this century. You don't need to hold onto everything from the past."

Hermann scoffs, wrapping his arms around himself. "I like this sweater," he says. "I don't need something new. Even if it's a bit old, a bit worn. It's broken in, it's comfortable. Why should I replace it?"

"What if you're missing out on something better?" Newt asks, turning towards the kitchen cabinets. He opens one to pull out two mugs. "If you've only had the one sweater for forever, you've got nothing to compare it to. You never wonder if you've... settled?"

Hermann opens his mouth to ask how he is 'settling' for an article of clothing, when he notices the way Newt's shoulders are tense, the hard set to his brow, frowning down at the mugs. Oh. Oh, this isn't about a sweater. This is a far more dangerous thing, and Newt doesn't seem to know how to talk about it without bringing up contrived metaphors.

"You've got, erm, that old ratty leather jacket," Hermann says, watching as Newt pulls a cannister out of the next cabinet and a spoon from the drawer. "Which I'm sure you've had for over a decade. Are you planning on getting rid of it any time soon? Is- is it no longer wanted?"

"No, I love that thing," Newt says. He leans to his right to open the fridge, pulling out the milk and pouring some into the mugs.  "But it still works just fine. No problems with its zipper. Yours is... it's a little broken, now. Just a lot of extra work for you to put up with. You deserve more than having to deal with that all the time."

It takes a minute for Hermann to process what Newt is saying, because he can't possibly mean himself now, can he? Calling himself broken? Extra work? Someone to ‘deal’ with, rather than someone whose company Hermann enjoys?

"Is that what you think?" Hermann asks as Newt places the mugs into the microwave and presses the buttons to set a ninety-second timer. "You think I just put up with you out of some misguided... comfort with familiarity? That I'm settling for you?"

Newt twists around, frowning and biting his lip. "I didn't say anything about me, we were talking about-"

"Oh, sod the bloody metaphor, you twit," Hermann responds, stepping back into Newt's space, where he felt so warm before, so comfortable, so natural to be there. Newt blinks, looking alarmed when Hermann's hands come up to cup his jaw. "You aren't broken, Newton. I can't believe you'd even think that. And even if you're a bit off-kilter sometimes, well, so am I. We're two halves of an imperfect whole. So, we're a perfect fit."

"H-Herms," Newt stutters, as unsure as Hermann's ever seen him, which is a rarity for a man with the reckless, brash confidence of Newt. "Herms, I don't- look, I know I felt like we couldn't live separately after the drift, but it's been some time and I just, I don't wanna force you to stay here forever. I'm an adult, even if you don't think that sometimes, and I can't blame you if you've got plans for the rest of your life that don't involve being stuck with me as your roommate."

"Firstly," Hermann says, "you've got a funny way of remembering that conversation if you think I wasn't as completely invested in staying by your side as you were mine. Secondly, you haven't been paying attention if you think you're not a deeply important part of my plans. The _most_  important," he finishes, brushing a lock of damp hair off Newt's forehead with his thumb. He lets that thumb slide downwards, catching on the edge of Newt's mouth. Newt swallows, giving Hermann the longest stare of his life until they both lean in tandem towards one another, meeting in the middle for an achingly triumphant kiss.

Hermann grips the collar of Newt's t-shirt and holds it tight. There's an undercurrent of energy, a connection that sparks to life, the edges of drift bleed. He swears he can feel Newt's surprise, his blossoming joy, a sense of a long-wondered question finally answered. Newt holds Hermann's hips, in need of his own support. His thumbs leaving trails of fire as they brush against Hermann's skin. Hermann gasps, sliding one of his hands from Newt's jaw to the back of his head. He doesn't want Newt going anywhere. Pressed together, he's feeling that connection he's craved so badly since the drift. He deepens the kiss, shivering when Newt makes a needy sound and pushes closer, pressing Hermann back against the counter. The timer for the microwave is going off now, but neither of them seem to care.

" _Herms_ ," Newt gasps when they finally break apart, though only just enough to let each other breathe. "Fuck... This is okay, right?"

"More than," Hermann murmurs, rubbing circles against the back of Newt's hair with his thumb. "Newton, I'm sorry. I should've said something. I should've been clearer. You're the only one for me."

"Yeah, well, I should've said something too," Newt says, resting his forehead against Hermann's. "I've was afraid that you were gonna tell me one day that you were moving on. Or that if I pushed my feelings onto you, you'd freak out and run away."

"So better to hold onto what you had than risk it all, yes?" Hermann asks, smiling when Newt nods. "I felt much the same. We're both the fools, my dear man. No wonder the Precursors failed to stop our 'dynamic duo,' as you called it; we're both far too stubborn and far too suited for each other."

Newt chuckles, pressing a quicker kiss to Hermann's mouth and then pulling away, moving towards the microwave. "Yeah, dynamic idiots who can't see what's right in front of their faces. Truly some poor analytical skills on our part."

Hermann follows him, hands resting gently against the small of Newt's back and his stomach. "Where are you going?" Hermann asks. "We now have a plethora of things to discuss. You don't just kiss a man, confess your feelings and then walk off."

"Relax, Herms," Newt says, giggling as Hermann begins peppering kisses against his cheek. He opens the microwave, removing two steaming mugs and setting them on the counter. "I just wanna finish making you some cocoa. This is the good stuff. We can fix it up, go sit on the couch and talk. Okay?"

Newt is sloppy in his attempt to mix the cocoa powder into the milk, which isn't entirely his fault, since Hermann refuses to not be in close proximity: arms wrapped warmly around Newt's waist, nuzzling his shoulder. When the powder is nice and blended, a handful of small marshmallows layering the top completes the drink. Newt presses one of the mugs into Hermann's hands and picks up the other, clinking them together. They both take a deep sip.

Newt lowers the mug to reveal a cocoa mustache that he licks off, looking at Hermann with anticipation. "Well?" Newt asks. "Good, right?

"It tastes good," Hermann agrees, nodding and setting down the mug. He then pries Newt's mug from his hands, sets it down, and cups his jaw, pulling him in for another kiss, deeper than the last, taste tinged with cocoa, and want -- no. Need.

"You taste better," Hermann says, a low rumble in his chest.

"Yeah. Agreed." Newt nods, breath speeding up as Hermann guides him backwards, through the kitchen door, towards their bedrooms. "On second thought, screw the cocoa. I’ve never been a big fan of it anyway."

**Author's Note:**

> On an end note, I was given prompts for both snowball fights and sharing hot drinks and I decided I needed to do both. Also, their midnight snowball fight is based off a personal experience.
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Holidays to all in this fandom, no matter what you celebrate, even if it's surviving another year in our nightmarish hellscape. This is my winter (fic) to you. Thank you so much for the past wonderful 9 months in this fandom.


End file.
